The Little Tin Soldier
by ObservationofTrifles
Summary: You know that it is futile to try and convince him otherwise because that man on the roof is Sherlock Holmes and you're only John Watson. But you try. John's POV, Reichenfic.


**Hello, this is a follow-up to Zugzwang, but can easily be read without reading that. This is from John's point of view, second person. Dedicated to RainyDaysandDayDreams, thank you for so faithfully reviewing my other stories! **

**If you've never read the story of the steadfast tin soldier, he burns in the end after following his paper ballerina into the fire. All that's left of him is a heart and of her is her sequins. **

**[Insert Disclaimer] Enjoy. **

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The panic hit you like a freight train, it hurt so much. Your heart skips a beat, your lungs ceasing to work. It's a joke, hallucination, nightmare, anything but the reality which you so desperately don't want it to be.

Your phone rings. It's him, it must be. Your hands are shaking and unconsciously you pick it up.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" Immediately you say, worried and scared.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came." How can he presume you'd ever do that?

"No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask. Please." Please? He never says that. He means this. It isn't a joke, dear god, it's all real... Calm, listen.

"Where?"

"Stop there." His voice is trembling, he's serious. You're not breathing or even thinking very well. It's a blur and your entire body is trembling.

"Sherlock."

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop." No, no, no, he can't. Your mind is screaming for him to stop but your voice is faltering.

"Oh god…"

"I-I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this." This? He's going through with this? you think. Damn that man's solid resolution.

"What's going on?" You're breathing again, but barely.

"An apology. It's all true." He's lying, that bastard is lying to you, of all people.

"What?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." The man on the roof, the one you worship, your best friend, is lying. You know it deep down that this is all a cover, something is wrong, so incongruent and wrong.

"Why are you saying this?" Please tell me the truth, you say.

"I'm a fake." God, no. The words hurt so much, does he even know?

"Sherlock-" Please listen to me, you say.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes." This is so off, just no. You are panicking, trying or prove him wrong, but you know it's futile because the man up there is Sherlock Holmes and you are just John Watson. But you try.

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met- the first time we met- you knew all about my sister, right?" You try and wait for an answer but it doesn't come quick enough and your mind is wracked and hurting.

"Nobody could be that clever." Why is he doing this, he is Sherlock! Your Sherlock!

"You could." Please, please listen. I'm trying to help you, to save you, because he saved you a little while ago. He helped you live again, not just survive. Your face and eyes are stinging, but you're trying not to realise this or let it show.

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick; it's just a magic trick." No, no, no. It can't be. You're scared, this is ripping you apart on the inside, what he's saying. Doesn't he realise that?!

"No, alright, stop it now." Please, you add in your mind.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." And the sad thing is that you won't, only because he is the one asking. You can vaguely see him extend his hand, is he stopping you or reaching out toward you?

"Alright."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" What, stand by? Watch him fall? Watch him perform an illusion, what?!

"Do what?"

"This phone call, it's… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" God no. An idea pops into your head, but you don't want it to be true so desperately, so so much.

"Leave a note when?" Your mind is pleading with his, please not suicide, please not suicide.

"Goodbye, John." Your mind stops.

"No. Don't-"

And he falls. Your heart breaks.

Everything stops. You try running, but your legs won't listen, one of them hurting so bad, worse than ever before.

Your stumble forward and you can hear the thud, his thud. God, no. A biker appears out of nowhere, and you fall. You can't get up, using up all of your strength.

Once you get to him, everything is a blur but you can only see his eyes and grab his wrist for two and a half seconds. No pulse.

No, no, no, it can't be.

By the time you fully comprehend what has happened, you're alone in the middle of the street, the life of the city around you and red stains on the pavement next to you.

* * *

You miss him.

It tears you apart and gnaws on what is left. This feeling of loneliness, intensified by the knowledge that the last thing you said to his face was that friends protect people. Was he protecting you?

You've never been interested by puzzles, usually vaguely attracted to but never relentlessly intrigued by them. Now this man, he was your best friend and his chessboard of a mind was one of those puzzles that you wanted to decipher and that broke today.

The game is rigged, you realise. Everybody lost.

Sherlock never lied. You believe and you will never stop because he kept you going and he was your friend. Is your friend. He was just a little bit broken by the end.

And you're broken too. Like that tin soldier who melted. That's what you are now, a tin soldier left with a hollow body, broken heart, and a soul that cannot ever be mended once more because your best friend is gone and you are all alone once more.

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**Hope you liked it. Leave a review if you feel moved to do so, I'd like that :) **

**Have a good day. ****Until next time. **


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